Kevin DOBBS

RED WINE

Our hips
like oak wedges

barely holding the bed
steady-she drifts

off so easily. I'm thinking
about whatever lowers

the level of limpids
in the blood

in the evening
must increase the level

of pain in the morning
and I'm not talking about head

pain alone
but the kind that collects

in the vital organs
while sleeping

and changes
the shape of your face

by morning
when there's an odor

from underneath
so dreadful it cannot be

yours. Young man sweetness,
with its forgivable sweat, is

now the I'm sorry stuff,
the distracted leaning on

the dresser drawer.
I want her to

taste that quivering boy
so I can taste him

again, not the tentative,
over-thinking cheapskate.

I want the blond boy,
penniless, muscles

peach and cut tight
like spools of Guernsey yarn.

I want the body
that stopped women

from shopping, at least
momentarily. That young man

with chest-power nearing
the J.C. Penney's

cosmetic's counter knowing
that just walking by

he could turn the mirror.

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